Page 39 of Splintered Security
“Since we’ve only been considering it for four seconds or so, I don’t have any place in mind. We can pick a few places and decide from there. That work?”
I smile. “I’d like that.” I finger the wet hair at my shoulder. “But I need to figure out what to do about my job, since I can’t do mine with the commute right now.”
“Give them notice.”
“But I need a job.”
“Find one here. Or don’t. We’ll manage.”
I want to mutter under my breath “We’ll manage” back to him, but I don’t. He’s serious. When did Ren, who grew up like Aug and I did, get to a place ofwe’ll manage. That’s a radical shift in mindset.
He must see the look on my face, because he goes on. “I’m not rich, not by a long stretch, but I do fine. I don’t live to keep up with the Joneses and I don’t take really long showers.” He winks at me. “We can afford for you not to have a job for a while. We could afford it longer, but I kind of dig the shower scene with you. If that’s to continue”—his eyes rake over my body—“we may need to consider adjusting the budget to accommodate.”
My cheeks flush. The heat could fill the room with the waves coming off me.
“We’ll figure it out.” He says it with finality as he pours batter over the grid in the iron plates.
“Okay, Ren.”
His eyes heat, but I don’t make too much of it.
I make drinks while he makes beautiful, thick waffles that are so perfect, they annoy me. Light and airy on the inside, crunchy and golden on the outside.
“Ugh.”
“What? It isn’t good?” He takes in his plate and spears a bite with his fork. When he puts it in his mouth, he looks at me curiously. “Seems fine. What’s wrong?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course, they’re fine. They’re more than fine. Everything you make is delicious. It’s annoying.”
His eyebrows rise on his olive forehead, and his eyes crinkle in amusement. “You’re annoyed I can cook?” His chest rises and falls with laughter. “What happened in the shower?”
“Shut up.” I smack his chest.
“Make me.”
Before I can make good on his demand, he silences me. He taps a finger into his syrup, smears it on my bottom lip, and proceeds to lick it off, holding my eyes the whole time. It’s slow and erotic and very, very effective.
“Eat your waffle, baby. They’re not good cold.”
I obey. The man is a master in the kitchen and, as it turns out, even better in the bedroom. And we haven’t even had sex yet. I don’t let my brain snag on why that is.
I don’t ask about what he did when he left in the middle of the night or where he went.
I eat my perfect waffle and the delicious fresh fruit he chopped. I sip my coffee and enjoy the company of my husband and my happy buzz, wondering how long this could last.
17
the hubster
Anni
Night falls on Sunday with me on the sofa, wrapped under a blanket, my feet resting on Ren’s lap. His thumbs massage my feet again while I set up my new phone so everything sounds right, looks right, and does what I need it to do.
Ren didn’t scrimp. I have the latest and greatest and, for now anyway, exactly one contact. I considered labeling himThe Hubster, but again, he’s the only contact soRenwill do. Besides, The Hubster is a little too cutesy for the not-cutesy-at-all man kneading my ankles and heels while watching football.
While I can still see the boy he was when we were growing up, more and more of that dissolves into another image—the military man who fought and apparently got injured doing God-knows-what in a foreign land, fighting our enemies. I also see the man who is opening up to me. In fact, aside from his job, I don’t see him on his phone texting or talking with anyone.
He's a lone wolf who now has to protect me while fighting his own battles. He hasn’t said what those are. It’s just something I know or sense in him. The lightness of someone who has little to worry about doesn’t exist in Ren Gallo.
